There's an echo of magic, his own racing under Bruce's skin, and it's tempting to sink into it entirely. But if he isn't careful, that could end up in the sort of feedback loop that would short both of them out and ruin what is shaping up to be a rather pleasant evening, reason for being here in the first place none withstanding.

He can feel Bruce pressed hard against him, the grip on his ass and the hand buried in his hair the right amount of forceful and controlling. There's always a rush of pleasure in being pushed around, letting himself be thrown down or shoved against a wall. If he were back in that psych ward they might say it's reclaiming himself for when he hadn't been in control, but Constantine just thinks maybe he's a bastard who knows what he deserves.

He hisses a curse as teeth sink into his skin, but his hand is burying in Bruce's hair and sketching another of the same sigil against the back of his neck, sending magic skittering over Bruce's scalp and shoulders. It threads down his spine, but Constantine makes a conscious effort to try and redirect as much as he could from anything that might end up too painful.

The problem is, it takes concentration to direct magic that precisely, and being thrown bodily onto the bed is a fantastic way to break that concentration. The spell ends abruptly and he grins, already thoroughly dishevelled on Bruce's bed.

"You said you wanted blasphemous magic, sweetheart."